You don't know how my lips steam, how my heart rages like wildfire. Flames can kindle even inside stone— they will shake you, set you ablaze. You don't know how my fingers yearn to ignite passionate infernos. Rivers of molten lava will surge through you, racing madly through every cell. You don't know how bewitching my eyes are, how they drink and drink till you forget yourself into rapture. Your heart will be touched, as if by magic, by the gossamer wings of a butterfly. If only you knew, you would come to me with a soul parched and splitting open. With fire burning in my hands, to conjure dreams real, I have leapt beyond every wall.
# You Don't Know You don't know how the silence breaks like glass beneath a careful foot, or how the dark learns to speak in the language of closed doors. You don't know what it costs to keep a secret pressed against your ribs, or how a single word can travel through the chambers of the heart like a bird that has forgotten how to sing. You don't know the weight of waiting— how minutes turn to lead, how hope becomes a stranger wearing yesterday's clothes. You don't know what the mirrors see when no one is looking, or why the rain tastes different on a day when nothing matters. You don't know how to name the ache that lives between two breaths, or why some wounds refuse to close even as the seasons turn. You don't know, and perhaps that is mercy— this not knowing, this beautiful, terrifying not knowing that lets us wake each morning and pretend we are still whole.
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